{"product_id":"the-secrets-we-kept-reeses-book-club-isbn-9780525566106","title":"The Secrets We Kept: Reese's Book Club","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • A thrilling tale of secretaries turned spies, of love and duty, and of sacrifice—inspired by the true story of the CIA plot to infiltrate the hearts and minds of Soviet Russia, not with propaganda, but with the greatest love story of the twentieth century: \u003ci\u003eDoctor Zhivago\u003c\/i\u003e • A HELLO SUNSHINE x REESE WITHERSPOON BOOK CLUB PICK\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the height of the Cold War, Irina, a young Russian-American secretary, is plucked from the CIA typing pool and given the assignment of a lifetime. Her mission: to help smuggle \u003ci\u003eDoctor Zhivago\u003c\/i\u003e into the USSR, where it is banned, and enable Boris Pasternak’s magnum opus to make its way into print around the world. Mentoring Irina is the glamorous Sally Forrester: a seasoned spy who has honed her gift for deceit, using her magnetism and charm to pry secrets out of powerful men. Under Sally’s tutelage, Irina learns how to invisibly ferry classified documents—and discovers deeply buried truths about herself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Secrets We Kept\u003c\/i\u003e combines a legendary literary love story—the decades-long affair between Pasternak and his mistress and muse, Olga Ivinskaya, who inspired Zhivago’s heroine, Lara—with a narrative about two women empowered to lead lives of extraordinary intrigue and risk. Told with soaring emotional intensity and captivating historical detail, this is an unforgettable debut: a celebration of the powerful belief that a work of art can change the world. \"A gorgeous and romantic feast of a novel anchored by a cast of indelible secretaries.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Enthralling... This is the rare page-turner with prose that's as wily as its plot.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Proto-feminist \u003ci\u003eMad Men \u003c\/i\u003etransposed to the world of international espionage—all midcentury style and intrigue set against real, indelible history.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Prescott clearly had fun crafting this story, and the result is a novel that’s a delight to read — and a secret worth sharing.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—San Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Secrets We Kept\u003c\/i\u003e is simply sensational. Two gripping narratives unfold in the pressure cooker of the Cold War: passionate, courageous Olga who stands in the shadow of Soviet author Boris Pasternak yet inspires him to write a heroine for the ages, and the cynical, equally-overshadowed women of the CIA who help bring Pasternak's masterpiece \u003ci\u003eDr. Zhivago \u003c\/i\u003eto bear as a weapon against Soviet oppression. From the gulags of the USSR to the cherry blossom trees of Washington DC, the story grips and refuses to let go. Lara Prescott is a star in the making.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eKate Quinn\u003ci\u003e, New York Times \u003c\/i\u003eBestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Huntress and The Alice Network\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Prescott crafts a cloak-and-dagger story of passion, espionage, and propaganda.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A page-turner that is at once a spy thriller, historical fiction and heartfelt romance...A thumping good story.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Columbus Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Through lucid images and vibrant storytelling, Prescott creates an edgy postfeminist vision of the Cold War, encompassing Sputnik to glasnost, typing pool to gulag, for a smart, lively page-turner. This debut shines as spy story, publication thriller, and historical romance with a twist.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A whirlwind of storytelling. In Prescott’s supremely talented hands, the result is no less than endlessly fascinating, often deliciously fun as well as heartbreaking\u003ci\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eThe Secrets We Kept\u003c\/i\u003e is a dazzling, beguiling debut.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BookPage \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Delightful... An intriguing and little-known chapter of literary history is brought to life with brio.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Epic in scope, deliciously meaty, and utterly convincing.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Ben Fountain, author of\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Stylish, thrilling, smart, vivid.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth McCracken, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThunderstruck \u0026amp; Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“Provocative, haunting and a damn good read.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—H.W. Brands, author of\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e The First American\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A first-rate novel, and it signals the arrival of a major new writer.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Bret Anthony Johnston, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eRemember Me Like This\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“One of the most unique and devastating novels [I have] read in years.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Deb Olin Unferth, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMinor Robberies\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eLARA PRESCOTT received her MFA from the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas, Austin. She was previously an animal protection advocate and a political campaign operative. Her stories have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Southern Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Hudson Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCrazyhorse\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eDay One\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eTin House\u003c\/i\u003e Flash Fridays. She won the 2016 \u003ci\u003eCrazyhorse\u003c\/i\u003e Fiction Prize for the first chapter of \u003ci\u003eThe Secrets We Kept\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Austin, Texas.\u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThe Typists\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We typed a hundred words per minute and never missed a syllable. Our identical desks were each equipped with a mint-shelled Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter, a black Western Electric rotary phone, and a stack of yellow steno pads. Our fingers flew across the keys. Our clacking was constant. We’d pause only to answer the phone or to take a drag of a cigarette; some of us managed to master both without missing a beat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The men would arrive around ten. One by one, they’d pull us into their offices. We’d sit in small chairs pushed into the corners while they’d sit behind their large mahogany desks or pace the carpet while speaking to the ceiling. We’d listen. We’d record. We were their audience of one for their memos, reports, write-ups, lunch orders. Sometimes they’d forget we were there and we’d learn much more: who was trying to box out whom, who was making a power play, who was having an affair, who was in and who was out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes they’d refer to us not by name but by hair color or body type: Blondie, Red, Tits. We had our secret names for them, too: Grabber, Coffee Breath, Teeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They would call us girls, but we were not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We came to the Agency by way of Radcliffe, Vassar, Smith. We were the first daughters of our families to earn degrees. Some of us spoke Mandarin. Some could fly planes. Some of us could handle a Colt 1873 better than John Wayne. But all we were asked when inter­viewed was “Can you type?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s been said that the typewriter was built for women—that to truly make the keys sing requires the feminine touch, that our narrow fingers are suited for the device, that while men lay claim to cars and bombs and rockets, the typewriter is a machine of our own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, we don’t know about all that. But what we will say is that as we typed, our fingers became extensions of our brains, with no delay between the words coming out of their mouths—words they told us not to remember—and our keys slapping ink onto paper. And when you think about it like that, about the mechanics of it all, it’s almost poetic. Almost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But did we aspire to tension headaches and sore wrists and bad posture? Is it what we dreamed of in high school, when studying twice as hard as the boys? Was clerical work what we had in mind when opening the fat manila envelopes containing our college accep­tance letters? Or where we thought we’d be headed as we sat in those white wooden chairs on the fifty-yard line, capped and gowned, receiving the rolled parchments that promised we were qualified to do so much more?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most of us viewed the job in the typing pool as temporary. We wouldn’t admit it aloud—not even to each other—but many of us believed it would be a first rung toward achieving what the men got right out of college: positions as officers; our own offices with lamps that gave off a flattering light, plush rugs, wooden desks; our own typists taking down \u003ci\u003eour \u003c\/i\u003edictation. We thought of it as a beginning, not an end, despite what we’d been told all our lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Other women came to the Agency not to start their careers but to round them out. Leftovers from the OSS, where they’d been legends during the war, they’d become relics relegated to the typing pool or the records department or some desk in some corner with nothing to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was Betty. During the war, she ran black ops, striking blows at opposition morale by planting newspaper articles and dropping propaganda flyers from airplanes. We’d heard she once provided dynamite to a man who blew up a resource train as it passed over a bridge somewhere in Burma. We could never be sure what was true and what wasn’t; those old OSS records had a way of disappearing. But what we did know was that at the Agency, Betty sat at a desk along with the rest of us, the Ivy League men who were her peers during the war having become her bosses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We think of Virginia, sitting at a similar desk—her thick yellow cardigan wrapped around her shoulders no matter the season, a pencil stuck in the bun atop her head. We think of her one fuzzy blue slipper underneath her desk—no need for the other, her left leg amputated after a childhood hunting accident. She’d named her prosthetic leg Cuthbert, and if she had too many drinks, she’d take it off and hand it to you. Virginia rarely spoke of her time in the OSS, and if you hadn’t heard the secondhand stories about her spy days you’d think she was just another aging government gal. But we’d heard the stories. Like the time she disguised herself as a milkmaid and led a herd of cows and two French Resistance fighters to the border. How the Gestapo had called her one of the most dangerous of the allied spies—Cuthbert and all. Sometimes Virginia would pass us in the hall, or we’d share an elevator with her, or we’d see her waiting for the number sixteen bus at the corner of E and Twenty-First. We’d want to stop and ask her about her days fighting the Nazis—about whether she still thought of those days while sitting at that desk wait­ing for the next war, or for someone to tell her to go home. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They’d tried to push the OSS gals out for years—they had no use for them in their new cold war. Those same fingers that once pulled triggers had become better suited for the typewriter, it seemed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But who were we to complain? It was a good job, and we were lucky to have it. And it was certainly more exciting than most govern­ment gigs. Department of Agriculture? Interior? Could you imagine? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Soviet Russia Division, or SR, became our home away from home. And just as the Agency was known as a boys’ club, we formed our own group. We began thinking of ourselves as the Pool, and we were stronger for it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Plus, the commute wasn’t bad. We’d take buses or streetcars in bad weather and walk on nice days. Most of us lived in the neighbor­hoods bordering downtown: Georgetown, Dupont, Cleveland Park, Cathedral Heights. We lived alone in walk-up studios so small one could practically lie down and touch one wall with her head and the other with her toes. We lived in the last remaining boarding houses on Mass. Avenue, with lines of bunk beds and ten-thirty curfews. We often had roommates—other government gals with names like Agnes or Peg who were always leaving their pink foam curlers in the sink or peanut butter stuck to the back of the butter knife or used sanitary napkins improperly wrapped in the small wastebasket next to the sink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only Linda Murphy was married back then, and only just mar­ried. The marrieds never stayed long. Some stuck it out until they got pregnant, but usually as soon as an engagement ring was slipped on, they’d plan their departure. We’d eat Safeway sheet cake in the break room to see them off. The men would come in for a slice and say they were awfully sad to see them go; but we’d catch that glim­mer in their eye as they thought about whichever newer, younger girl might take their place. We’d promise to keep in touch, but after the wedding and the baby, they’d settle down in the farthest corners of the District—places one would have to take a taxi or two buses to reach, like Bethesda or Fairfax or Alexandria. Maybe we’d make the journey out there for the baby’s first birthday, but anything after that was unlikely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most of us were single, putting our career first, a choice we’d re­peatedly have to tell our parents was not a political statement. Sure, they were proud when we graduated from college, but with each pass­ing year spent making careers instead of babies, they grew increas­ingly confused about our state of husbandlessness and our rather odd decision to live in a city built on a swamp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And sure, in summer, Washington’s humidity was thick as a wet blanket, the mosquitoes tiger-striped and fierce. In the morning, our curls, done up the night before, would deflate as soon as we’d step outside. And the streetcars and buses felt like saunas but smelled like rotten sponges. Apart from a cold shower, there was never a moment when one felt less than sweaty and disheveled. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Winter didn’t offer much reprieve. We’d bundle up and rush from our bus stop with our head down to avoid the winds that blew off the icy Potomac. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But in the fall, the city came alive. The trees along Connecticut Avenue looked like falling orange and red fireworks. And the tem­perature was lovely, no need to worry about our blouses being soaked through at the armpits. The hot dog vendors would serve fire-roasted chestnuts in small paper bags—the perfect amount for an evening walk home. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And each spring brought cherry blossoms and busloads of tour­ists who would walk the monuments and, not heeding the many signs, pluck the pink-and-white flowers and tuck them behind an ear or into a suit pocket. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fall and spring in the District were times to linger, and in those moments we’d stop and sit on a bench or take a detour around the Reflecting Pool. Sure, inside the Agency’s E Street complex the fluo­rescent lights cast everything in a harsh glow, exaggerating the shine on our forehead and the pores on our nose. But when we’d leave for the day and the cool air would hit our bare arms, when we’d choose to take the long walk home through the Mall, it was in those moments that the city on a swamp became a postcard. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But we also remember the sore fingers and the aching wrists and the endless memos and reports and dictations. We typed so much, some of us even dreamed of typing. Even years later, men we shared our beds with would remark that our fingers would sometimes twitch in our sleep. We remember looking at the clock every five minutes on Friday afternoons. We remember the paper cuts, the scratchy toilet paper, the way the lobby’s hardwood floors smelled of Murphy Oil Soap on Monday mornings and how our heels would skid across them for days after they were waxed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We remember the one strip of windows lining the far end of SR—how they were too high to see out of, how all we could see anyway was the gray State Department building across the street, which looked exactly like our gray building. We’d speculate about their typing pool. What did they look like? What were their lives like? Did they ever look out their windows at our gray building and wonder about us?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the time, those days felt so long and specific; but thinking back, they all blend. We can’t tell you whether the Christmas party when Walter Anderson spilled red wine all over the front of his shirt and passed out at reception with a note pinned to his lapel that read do not resuscitate happened in ’51 or ’55. Nor do we remember if Holly Falcon was fired because she let a visiting officer take nude photos of her in the second-floor conference room, or if she was promoted because of those very photos and fired shortly after for some other reason.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But there are other things we do remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If you were to come to Headquarters and see a woman in a smart green tweed suit following a man into his office or a woman wearing red heels and a matching angora sweater at reception, you might’ve assumed these women were typists or secretaries; and you would’ve been right. But you would have also been wrong. \u003ci\u003eSecretary: \u003c\/i\u003ea per­son entrusted with a secret. From the Latin \u003ci\u003esecretus, secretum. \u003c\/i\u003eWe all typed, but some of us did more. We spoke no word of the work we did after we covered our typewriters each day. Unlike some of the men, we could keep our secrets.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303232884965,"sku":"NP9780525566106","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525566106.jpg?v=1767741435","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-secrets-we-kept-reeses-book-club-isbn-9780525566106","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}